


Care Package

by oisiflaneur



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possessive Behavior, briefly, pretentious metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisiflaneur/pseuds/oisiflaneur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter doesn't expect his letters to be returned; not <i>really</i>. So his curiosity gets the better of him when someone sends him a gift. </p><p>Post season two. "Will Graham & Matthew Brown capture Hannibal and turn him in before going on a serial killer road trip to Florida where they adopt a dozen dogs and kiss a lot" AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care Package

**Author's Note:**

> you can probably guess what the contents are from the tags, but here's the **full trigger list** : implications of past abuse, possessiveness, recording without consent, voyeurism.
> 
> references to Red Dragon because this is probably Matthew being a little brat about Crawford asking Will to go talk to even a caged Hannibal Lecter.
> 
> finally, a thank you to @gingerfrost for filling in a bunch of the gaps for me.
> 
> my general writing tag is [here](http://oisiflaneur.tumblr.com/tagged/graywrites) for drabbles etc!

“You have some very clever penpals, it seems.” 

Hannibal only deigns to smile in response, glancing briefly at Chilton before returning to his reading; leafing to the next page with a conspicuous ruffle to tell the psychologist that even with all the time in the world, he doesn’t have enough time for _him_. 

“Something _very_ interesting arrived for you. We had to screen it, of course, as we do everything. For your own safety as well as ours, as you know. But it would appear as though this one was expecting it. Almost as though they knew how the hospital works.” Chilton lets that hang in the air, waiting for Hannibal to react.

The prisoner turns another page, keeping his face impassive despite the small spark of curiosity that flares within him.

With a grunt, Chilton taps his cane against the cement floor and forges ahead, smiling wryly as he stands. “Whether it be out of altruism or boredom, I’ve decided to humor the suggestions of your... _Mystery correspondent_. I’m sure anything meant only for the great Doctor Lecter must be worth investigating, mmm?”

He must think that his stepping to the side to allow an orderly through looks dramatic, but the effect is partially ruined by the hollow _tak_ ing of his cane on the floor as he shuffles: the everpresent reminder of how Gideon left him hobbled and incomplete. The attendant is quiet, carrying a small cardboard box, balanced atop an old laptop computer, and clutching both against his chest protectively. He drops them in the slot at the front of Hannibal’s cell, something small rattling in the box, and jumps back as though he fears the plexiglass might bite him. Hannibal certainly might.

“You should consider yourself lucky that we had this old piece of junk lying around. I don’t think it’s even wireless capable. I’ll be taking it back tomorrow, so enjoy an evening of unrestricted access to pixellated solitaire.” Chilton dismisses the orderly with a casual wave, watching Hannibal in a way that reminds him of a starving scavenger, circling a carcass until the true predators leave. “You’re lucky that I don’t consider it worth my time to try and guess at the password myself, you know.”

Hannibal sighs quietly, but certainly audibly, as he closes his book. Noting with some satisfaction the other doctor’s disgruntlement, he purposefully takes his time unloading the tray and carrying it back to his cot. The cardboard box has already been cut open along the top, but the letter within is still intact.

Dr Chilton,  
I know you’ll be reading this. Anything addressed to one of your most famous patients must be worth investigating, am I right? 

I promise you’ll get to reap the effects (you’re in the best position to, after all), but the contents are meant for Hannibal Lecter alone. Give him a stripped down computer, earphones, and a little actual privacy. It should only be about an hour; you can contain your curiosity for that long.

As for you, Mr Lecter,

He notes the lack of his title, despite Chilton having been addressed with his. His labionasal lines deepen only a fraction to indicate his frown.

I’ve received a number of your letters and postcards over these last few years. It always brought a smile to my face to hear updates on your progress, but not nearly as much as it did to burn them before their intended addressee could read them.

Since you show no signs of stopping, I decided to finally return the favor. If the good warden will let you, take a little while and enjoy the contents of the disc. The password is the number of scars at your last count. Because it’s for your eyes only, it’ll lock with a totally randomized password after you watch it. I’d ask you to destroy it afterwards just to be completely safe... But knowing you, you’ll probably frame it just to spite me. So do whatever you want, since it’ll be worthless by then, anyway.

But if I see another letter from you, I’ll be sure to send you a new one just like it.

It’s over, Judas. Forget.

Hannibal almost does, wearing his practiced disdain until he’s sure that Chilton has stopped watching him for a reaction. It takes hours of ignoring the proffered entertainment, before the “good warden” seems to lose his patience and find his other patients.

It’s tempting to ignore the contents of the package completely just to spite, but something nags at him. Aside from his general curiosity, he wants to know whether his inklings about the password are right.

Of course, they are. 

It takes nearly five minutes to boot the computer up, but Hannibal notes the machine’s age with only the barest hint of detached disapproval. When he loads the unmarked compact disc into the slot, he finds a video file encoded for a player he doesn’t recognize. Some third party freeware system advertising a number of security features. It works fine from the disc, apparently, but it demands a password before he can execute the file.

He thinks for a long moment, trying to recall in detail, before he types in a single character.

A spark of doubt, rare as it is, flashes through him when the password is rejected. It passes, as those sparks always do, when he enters multiple letters.

F I V E

“Hang on, hang on. Just a second...”

 _Ah,_ thinks Hannibal. So _that’s_ the game.

The laptop -- it has to be, the clicking sounds as Matthew Brown fusses in front of the camera are deafening -- must be at an angle, its only companions on the bedside table an alarm clock and a glass with only the barest residue of whiskey clinging to the bottom. Suddenly, the tinny sounds of music blare in his ears with a crackle, and Hannibal winces as he wonders whether that was intentional. Judging by the crinkling of Matthew’s eyes as he turns the volume down to a quiet buzz, he files it away as a likely possibility.

He moves back towards the bed, revealing Will kneeling on the mattress and breathing heavily, one hand over his eyes and the other flat against the sheets. “Alright, you can open your eyes now. Just didn’t want you peeking and guessing tonight’s mood music...” 

When Will does drop his hand and open his eyes, it’s to show Matthew that he’s rolling them, even as he reaches for the other man’s wrist. “As long as you don’t try to put a -- god, was it Nine Inch Nails? -- album on repeat again, I don’t really care.”

Matthew only glances back at the camera once before he settles onto the bed, pulling Will closer to him, wrapping his hands around his wrists. “I was in a mood, alright? They’ve got a few albums that are good for background noise. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.”

“It would have been hard to, over the screeching.” Will’s tone is dry -- his voice clear above the ambient sounds of the shore and Matthew’s insipid music choices -- but he pants between words, and his face is flushed. “Reznor’s, or yours?” Matthew slides back on the bed with little grace, pulling Will’s weight off of his calves by the grip on his hands. “I could turn it off, if you _don’t_ want something to drown you out for the neighbors...”

Rolling his eyes, Will nonetheless lets him tangle their knuckles together, interlocking their hands and pressing their palms together. “What neighbors?” He says quietly, less openly sarcastic now that he has skin contact to distract him. 

“Exactly.” Matthew grins before he leans in and kisses him, pulling his hands back to tug them together. 

Even though he knew, as soon as he heard Matthew Brown’s voice and the low roar of the gulf, what this would be, Hannibal feels something he hasn’t in a considerable length of time: fury. This is wrong. This is _beyond_ wrong. It’s like watching an amateur painter sully a great master’s opus, smearing lazy blotches of color across chapel frescos. 

Will, his unknowing masterpiece, shows no remorse as he climbs into Matthew’s lap, keeping balance with his grip on the other man’s hands. The younger man chuckles breathlessly as he tugs him closer, pulling him down onto his thighs even as he nips at his mouth.

“You should strip for me.” He drawls, staring up at Will with something almost like adoration.

“Somebody’s feeling bossy tonight.” Will shoots back, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth takes all the bite out of his words. He eases his weight back, almost leaning against Matthew’s upright knees, and starts to unbutton his shirt.

“Slower.” Matthew prompts, leaning back and propping himself on his elbows, looking Will up and down with a lopsided grin. Will obliges, but snorts and gives him a look, tilting his head almost sidelong. “Are you feeling alright? _You’re_ the one who’s usually in a hu-”

Hannibal brings the screen down with a decisive snap. He tastes bile rising at the back of his throat, knows that it’s brought on by outrage and not revulsion.

Well, perhaps a _touch_ of revulsion.

When his teeth have come unclenched and his breathing returned to its normal pace, Hannibal lifts the screen again to find that the video has kept going without him. So, only one chance to watch, it would seem. He wonders how Matthew set that little trick up.

He frowns internally and steels his curiosity. On the screen, Will has been reduced to his underthings, currently in the middle of pulling his threadbare tank top over his head with crossed elbows. Matthew’s shirt has been split open like a snake’s skin, and Hannibal can’t help but marvel momentarily at the aptness of the comparison. Not that he’d normally consider ‘coldblooded’ an insult, but...

“How do you want me?” Matthew says suddenly, disgustingly earnest. A grin splits his face as Will colors even more, breathing heavily in his lap. “You wanna ride me? You want me inside you?” He prompts him as he reaches up to trace his fingertips along the curve of Will’s jaw, watching him with rapt focus. His pupils twitch down to follow the bob of Will’s adam’s apple as his swallows, licking his lips anxiously.

“Please.” He says it so quietly that it’s almost lost under the quiet buzz of Matthew’s ambient soundtrack and the everpresent static noise of the shoreline, but with earbuds pumping the sound directly against his eardrums, Hannibal can hear it. “Please, Matt?” Will casts his weathered undershirt to the side, leaning over Matthew by only a few degrees.

“Why don’t you get me ready, then?” That infernal grin is still on his _infernal_ face, his thin features stretched with smug satisfaction. Matthew unfolds his legs and props himself up higher on his elbows, staring unabashedly as Will shifts and curls down to kiss the middle of his chest, down along to his navel. He watches openly and intently as Will rolls down the waistband of his boxers, his head tilted to simultaneously run his teeth along the jutting edge of his hipbone. 

With a twitch of his neck and a final glance up at his eyes, Will shifts and presses his mouth against the skin of Matthew’s cock.

The moan that Matthew makes when Will licks the head of his erection _must_ be played up; it’s too hopelessly pornographic to be genuine. Hannibal wants to busy himself with the background, the scratchy rerecorded songs Matthew put on, _anything_ but Will’s lips sliding down around some unworthy heathen’s dick. But the bedroom is sparse and spartan, and Will is sweating and shaking, and Hannibal can’t help but remember how easy it was to get that plastic tube past the back of his throat. Can't help but remember the quiet whine when he'd run his own fingertips over the cut of his teeth, silently saving further exploration for a later date. Will's apparent enthusiasm for lapping up and down the shaft of Matthew’s cock doesn’t help the case against a potential oral fixation, he can’t help but note. The outrage is distant, without urgency, and with nothing else to concentrate on, Hannibal can’t help but analyze what’s in front of him.

“Will, come _on_ -” Matthew practically whimpers, his hands scrabbling towards Will’s temples. It has little effect other than to coax an answering whine out of Will, dragging the flat of his tongue up from the base of his cock. “You’ve gotta get the lube if you want me inside you,” Matthew finally hisses; and Will seems to almost physically stutter, jolting and dipping on the bed as his joints go weak. He gives Matthew’s dick a final, farewell lick, before crawling over towards the camera and reaching offscreen to fumble in the drawer of the bedside table. The faint light, what must be only barely past dusk, is enough to illuminate Will flushed and trembling with lust. When he pulls back again, it's to hit a bottle against the palm of his hand, panting and peering at Matthew from beneath his lashes. He leans forward and makes to spread it on Matthew’s skin, before the younger man interrupts him. 

“Finger yourself,” Matthew says, not imperiously but soft, more like a question he wants Will to answer. And it takes a long moment of Will battling his uncertainty; but with a quiet whine, answer he does. Recovering swiftly from being frozen in place, Will lifts himself onto his knees, skating his wet fingers along his taint to tease at his hole. Matthew watches nigh unblinking as Will tests his first knuckles inside, whimpering helplessly when he forgets to be slow and presses his fingers upwards, filling himself.

Will rocks downward onto his hand, eyes fluttering closed and mouth slipping open to let out a faint _oh_. Suddenly unable to care how he must look, he opens himself up for Matthew, fingers pressing against his walls, always grasping for _friction_ , until Matthew reaches a hand to curl around Will's hip, pulling and coaxing him forward. Will moves closer towards him as though Matthew's pulled his puppet strings -- which perhaps he has.

He settles his hips above Matthew, taking a moment to line the tip of his cock with his ass and -- hesitant but eager -- dipping himself down. It draws a soft moan out of his throat, which makes Matthew restrain himself from bucking, his hips visibly trembling. And when Will sits down flat against him, it's with one fluid, practiced motion.

“ _Shit_ , Will,” Matthew drops back against the pillows, his hands going to Will’s thighs, digging his fingernails into his skin on either side. “Y... You take me so good, now.” The praise earns a quiet whimper and Will’s knees going lax, dropping him down until his ass is flush with Matthew’s hips. 

“Just like that?” Will slurs, reaching back to grab at Matthew’s thighs in turn, more for stability than grip. His joints are shaking minutely, from restraint or exhaustion or perhaps some combination of both. 

His initial answer is a thrust that makes Will's eyes roll back and his chest pitch forward, clinging to Matthew’s legs to stay balanced. “Just like that.” Matthew smirks up at him and stays there for a long heartbeat, buried to the hilt, before falling back with a sigh.

“ _Shit_ , Matt.” He’s started to echo Matthew’s words as well as his desire, the barest hint of an emphasis falling on his ‘s’s. “It wouldn’t kill you to warn me before you do that...”

“Sorry.” Matthew’s tone sounds anything but, but his hips stay still as he lets go of one of Will’s legs, reaching up to trail it over his chest instead. “You know, I like it when you just fuck yourself on me, too.” 

The power of suggestion has always been _particularly_ powerful with Will. His inhale is sharp enough to hear, and with his eyes lidded and hazy, he almost doesn’t seem aware of the way his hips start grinding down. 

Matthew is more than aware. “Yeah,” His words have started to slur together, and his free palm has gone flat against Will’s stomach, following his movements. “Just like that. You can use me however you want, Mister Graham. I’m yours.” 

Will only answers by panting wordlessly, by leaning against his splayed fingers, by swinging his arms forward to brace against Matthew’s own chest, by rutting down against him with new vigor. 

“Ffffffuck,” the younger man drawls, the hand still on Will’s leg tightening possessively. His fingers almost make a claw against his skin, digging his fingernails in. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

That earns a laugh, breathless and broken up by his heavy breathing. “Far from it, Matt. You should know that better than anyone.” His protests trail off into a moan when he lifts himself almost free of Matthew’s cock, dropping back down with speed and force that makes him yelp. It doesn’t sound like a _bad_ yelp.

“Way to prove me right.” Matthew’s head lolls on the pillows as he grins wider, finally deigning to help Will along with a few shallow twitches of his hips. When that earns him Will curling and collapsing forward, hands still braced against his ribcage, he takes it as a cue to start to thrust up in earnest. “You have no idea how good you look like this, Will.” He laughs, keeping his own fingertips steady, dragging them to ruffle the fuzz on his navel as he pumps him up and down steadily. “You’re beautiful.”

And he is, despite everything. Hannibal can’t deny that, even now. Even impaled on someone else, moaning from the attentions of an amateur inferior, he’s still at his most exquisite when sweat drags his damp curls into his eyes. 

While Hannibal had been musing, Matthew’s hand had slipped up, trailing along the middle of Will’s chest to press his fingertips against his lips. Eyes lidded and mouth slack, Will pants around his knuckles as he licks them between his teeth, breathing too hard to close his mouth and suck on them properly. “You like that, huh?” Matthew is more lucid than Will, but only just barely; he has to pause for breath himself, between words, between thrusts. “First time I told you to get them ready to finger you, I was... Worried you’d come from just that.”

He doesn’t sound worried.

Will moans something around his fingers that the microphone can’t pick up, slurred and muffled and competing with other sounds as it is. But it makes Matthew freeze, going stockstill in the middle of pumping up into Will before falling back limply. He yanks his fingers from Will’s mouth -- but doesn’t go far when he whimpers and licks after them -- cupping his cheek and running his thumb along his bottom lip almost tenderly.

“Say that again?” He mumbles, stroking Will’s mouth as he still tries in vain to lap at his knuckles. 

“It ain’t usin’ yuh.” Will slurs dazedly, belatedly denying the earlier invitation between attempted bites at his hand. Clearly, the implication that Matthew might only be a tool to him hasn’t sat well. The bayou drawl is thick in his voice, his walls having been broken down to nothing, letting his old self slip out as he goes stupid with the stimulation. “I’m yers too, sha. Y’know dat.” His eyes are closed, blissed out and hazy; which allows Matthew to turn his face towards the computer, grinning slyly, undetected. 

Hannibal’s entire world turns red. That had been his. That had been _his_ , stolen from Will’s mouth during shaking, feverish episodes. No one else in his adult life had heard that, he was certain of it. It takes all of his willpower not to slam the screen down again, knowing that if he does, he’s sure to miss something. 

And now, he’s started counting. Hannibal Lecter needs to keep a running tally of Matthew Brown’s sins, so he can repay them in full.

“ _Shit_ , Will.” His lisp, out in full force now as though he's trading for Will's accent, softens the _s._ Matthew’s gone slack against the bed and turned his attention away from the camera, working his fingers into Will’s mouth again. He sounds equal parts awed and exhausted, reduced to echoing his earlier statements. His other hand finally unclenches from his thigh, leaving a red, dotted crescent. It’s against Will’s skin again soon enough, as he reaches between Will’s extended arms and curls his fingers around his cock. “Did he ever make you feel this good?”

When Will groans and finally opens his eyes, a little bit of clarity has seeped back into them, and his hips slow down just a fraction. “Come on, Matt... You know it wasn’t like that...” Even without speaking his name, it seems the mention of Hannibal is like a splash of cold water.

“I know.” Matthew murmurs sincerely, bucking up once to encourage Will to keep moving. “That’s why I’m asking.” His fist tightens on Will’s cock, tugging along his shaft, trying to move with him so as not to jar his rocking. “So? Did he ever make you feel this good?” He repeats, trying to coax an answer out.

Will’s low groaning changes pitch when Matthew ruts against him, pushing Will back into a rhythm. “N-no, Matt. Not even close.” 

“No?” He waits until Will’s eyes have fluttered closed momentarily to glance over at the computer again, stroking the other man’s mouth and dick with different degrees of pressure. Matthew doesn’t shove his fingers in his mouth this time, even with Will nipping after them again; he wants him to be articulate. Audible. “What’s the difference?” He prompts him again, verbally and otherwise, jerking up against him again.

Will’s gasps have taken on a wheezing edge, and he has to hold himself up against Matthew’s chest again, his voice rising in pitch again even as he works himself down. “Like the difference between day and night, Matt.” He murmurs, his eyelashes fluttering. If Matthew had been trying to push him into poetry, it worked. “He’s a ghost, the shadow lurking behind me as I tread through the forest. But you, you’re the sunrise... You illuminate the woods, make them tranquil again. Safe.”

“There’s my good boy,” Matthew croons breathlessly, his grin leaking into his tone. He drags his hand along Will’s dick, sliding the pad of his thumb over the slit. “You want your reward? You ready?”

When Will’s only answer is to bat his hand away from his mouth to try and muffle his moans, Matthew laughs and bucks up into him again. “Oh, yeah. I think you’re ready. Come, Will.”

He does as he's told instantly, shuddering and gasping, fingers against his mouth and arms tucked up to allow him to curl his spine, forehead pressed against the middle of Matthew’s chest. Will stays like that for a long moment, panting raggedly, until Matthew laughs and starts to card his fingers through his hair. 

“Hah. I thought that was a fluke the first time, you know.” 

Will’s eyelashes flutter as he blinks dazedly, still gasping for breath from behind his knuckles. They fly open properly again when Matthew’s grip on his scalp tightens, pulling him up to prompt him back into a proper kneel. He follows his hand up pliantly, swinging his weight back until he’s sitting up again. “Don’t go abusing it,” Will manages to slur, letting his eyes slide closed again as he starts to rut down against Matthew again.

“Greedy!” Matthew laughs, but it’s strained, his composure stretching at the seams. “Not enough, huh? Want me to cum in you, too?” He twitches up against Will’s fingertips as he braces his hands against his chest again, limp with exhaustion and afterglow and trying to keep himself upright. “I don’t mind. You’re allowed to be greedy for me.”

He takes advantage of Will’s momentary blindness to glance over at the laptop again, grinning even as he gasps for breath. “Mine, inside _and_ out...”

The gasp cuts him off suddenly, his own spare hand flying up to cup his mouth as it widens into a wail. Hannibal feels a sudden spike of ire, recognizing where Will must have picked up the gesture. 

The two of them stay like that for a few long moments, the noise of their panting mixing with the noise of the surf; though both sounds are nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in Hannibal’s ears. 

When Will finally moves again, it’s with a last shuddering roll of his hips, before he gasps and climbs off of Matthew to crawl up beside him. Even dazed with afterglow himself, Matthew is tactile, guiding Will up as he runs his hands over him almost reverently. “You _are_ perfect, you know? Everything about you.” He mumbles as he runs his fingers through his hair, over his shoulders, down his spine. 

“You’re one to talk, Levi.” Even Matthew's penchant for Biblical references has rubbed off, Hannibal notes grimly, as onscreen Will yawns, tilting his head back enough that the corner of a smile can be seen. “It’s almost as though you were made for me.”

“I was.” Matthew says instantly, without any hesitation or regret. Whatever Will mumbles back to him is lost to the microphone, muffled against Matthew’s bare chest. The younger man laughs and rolls them both over, turning Will onto his back and following his trajectory, lounging on his chest for a long moment. “I’m not! Not everything _nice_ somebody says to you is automatically a lie, you know.” 

He takes a moment to reach forward and run his fingertips along the scratch of Will’s jawline, stroking his cheek with something almost akin to tenderness. “You _are_ perfect. Just how you are.”

“Especially when how you are is _mine._ ” Matthew mutters, a grin splitting his face again.

The way he winks at the camera before it comes to an end is practically obscene. Alone in his cell with a useless laptop and more fury than he can remember, Hannibal lets a sighing exhale out through his nose, and ejects the disc.

Hannibal thinks briefly of asking Chilton to frame it for him, but he knows enough about reverse psychology to sweep those thoughts aside. The warden would likely make it more trouble than it was worth, besides. 

He snaps the disc in half, dropping the fragments into the trash. With his memory, he doesn’t need a repeat viewing: every frame of it is burnt into his brain cells. Hannibal briefly considers breaking the laptop as well, but decides that would give Chilton too much of a reaction.

He will not be the bear to snap at the stick he is being poked with. He has other methods of retribution at his disposal. 

His fingertips travel over the few books allowed in his cell, arranged alphabetically on his utilitarian shelving. A momentary pause has his index hovering over a cookbook, which he tips back by the spine to rifle through the pages. 

Matthew Brown is not the only killer that has been in correspondence with him. And with the sound of the surf and Will’s admission to isolation, there are only so many places around the gulf that he might potentially be calling home.

Perhaps when that is shattered once more, he’ll come crawling back to Hannibal’s side. Where he should be. 

An ad in the classifieds will not be too difficult to wrangle, apart from exercising his patience. His best bet is to wait a few days, until Chilton forgets about the whole ordeal. But he can wait; Hannibal has faith in his own pilgrim.


End file.
